“My wife made me do it,” I said, glumly. “I tried to warn you, Beloved.”
“I know,” she said, with a heavy sigh. “I have no one to blame but myself. And . . . I don’t regret coming, exactly. But I had no idea it would be this unbearable!”
“I knew it would be challenging, too,” I agreed, “but I had no idea . . . in some ways, this is worse than Farise. At least in Farise I had magic. Not much, but it was something.”
“Is it really so bad, without magic?” she asked, her curiosity overcoming her desire to complain.
“Worse than I’d anticipated,” I admitted in a murmur. “I feel weak and helpless, like a child. It’s going to take some getting used to. I hope it is easier to bear when we come to greener country. This is . . . it’s a nightmare. And one we must endure.”
“At least we’re together,” she said, stoically. “As weak as you might feel, I feel stronger for you being here.”
“And I, you,” I agreed, sincerely. “I just worry about you, and I curse myself for letting you come. That was foolish of me.”
“Foolish?” she sniffed. “Perhaps. But I don’t truly regret it. I’m glad I came, despite the torment,” she said, bravely. “We’ve been through so much. I honestly could not stand the thought of you risking everything without me here. Is that selfish of me?”
“No more selfish than me foolishly letting you come. What kind of weak-willed wizard am I?” I chuckled. “What kind of mage brings his wife into danger, for no better reason than his own comfort? Not exactly the stuff of legend.”
“I’ve been more burden than comfort,” she said, shaking her head. “I want to claw my own skin off, pull my hair out, plunge myself in a stream and scream at the top of my lungs . . . if my lungs didn’t hurt so badly for doing so.”
“I appreciate your sense of discretion,” I laughed. “Alas, we are beyond the Handmaiden’s aid, if you should do so.”
“This has nothing to do with my . . . infirmity,” she said, firmly. “That would be a perfectly natural and appropriate response to this wasteland for any sane woman.”
“I cannot argue with that,” I conceded, after a moment’s thought. “Indeed, it might be the most appropriate response to this desolation. But it would also hinder our completing our journey,” I pointed out, “so I doubly appreciate your forbearance.”
“You are welcome to it – with the understanding that I reserve the right to do all of those things, once we are through the wastes. And I shall do so absent your judgement,” she declared. “By the gods, I have earned that boon.”
“So granted,” I agreed.
By the time we made camp that night, we moved with the alacrity of the undead. Every joint now ached to the point of distraction. Our skin was painfully inflamed, and our throats parched. Despite the uncomfortable masks, there was still a stinging in our lungs with every breath and our eyes were severely irritated. All our tissues seemed parched beyond all reckoning.
Both that horrible night and the interminably long day we endured the next morn conspired to tax the last of our patience and endurance. We lost two more horses that day, one in the morning and one by afternoon. Some of the men had to walk, after that, and Tyndal wept over one of the beasts – a warhorse he especially prized.
Our Sky Riders were likewise somber when they landed at dusk. Apart from their weariness and the poor conditions of their birds, Nattia and Ithalia were able to report that our pursuers had gotten bogged down in the wastes, the victims of Tyndal’s spells. They had missed Tyr Morannan entirely, they said, and were struggling against both creatures of the wastes and the desolate landscape.
That cheered us little. Even the resilient Alon were showing signs of the effects of the wastes.
“Not much longer,” promised Fondaras, that evening. He was the only one who attempted a pipe anymore, although the flasks of spirits were popular. Our lungs hurt too much for smoking. “Tomorrow, by dusk, or the morning after, we should come to the cliffs that lead to Anghysbel. There is a beacon,” he revealed, “a few miles from the valley’s mouth. We will light it tomorrow night to alert the Kasari to our presence.”
“What if we did not?” asked Gareth.
“Then they would know whoever was moving up the cliffs was not privy to their secrets,” Fondaras chuckled. “That might not end as well for us. The Kasari do not have a large force, here, but there are enough to discourage casual visitors.”
“If the alternative was to travel back through the wastes, they’d better have an army,” proposed Tyndal. The lad looked more drawn and tired than I’d ever seen him. “Nothing less would keep me from fighting for at least a glimpse of green grass.”
“The last two miles of the wastes include a steep ascent,” Fondaras reminded him. “There are many places that lend themselves to ambush and traps. The kind the Kasari excel at. They do not lightly suffer intruders.”
“That’s my hope,” I agreed. “If the goblins do not perish in the wastes, perhaps they will end their journey at the hands of the rangers.”
“I’m just glad that we are nearly done with this unhappy place,” mused Gareth. “If the gods had chosen a place for a tenth hell, they could not have picked better.”
“You speak more truth than you know, Gareth,” Fondaras assured him. “The last few miles are the worst. That is where the land turns acidic.”
The footwizard was correct. The next day the land we traveled through was a vast plain of dark-tinted sands, powdery ash that had accumulated from some long-forgotten eruption of the volcano to the north. That did not diminish the hazard of the journey – on the contrary, the dark soil seemed to fight with the alkali bed to the south, and the result was insidiously toxic.
I don’t think we would have gotten through it, without Ormar’s masks. The horses, at least, would have likely perished. Our water supply was running low by the time we found the beacon Fondaras had spoken of. We lit it with flint and striker, not magic – an irony I was keen to appreciate. I had no more magic than my father did, I realized as the little lamp in the little tower atop the little hill was finally kindled at dusk. Indeed, I felt half the man my ancestors had contrived after the long, dry passage through the wastes. My wife was no better; her skin had become enflamed and irritated, but that dwarfed the change in her mood. She endured, it was clear, but just barely. Of all of our company, it was her health that worried me the most.
Of course, I couldn’t say that. The most I could do was mention it to Lilastien, as she conducted her nightly medical survey of the company.
“Alya is fine,” she assured me, before I went to bed that night. “Well, not really fine, but no better and no worse than any of us, after the last few days. We’re actually holding up fairly well,” the Sorceress of Sartha Wood declared. “I’ve been monitoring fluid intake for everyone, even the horses. We have enough to get through tomorrow with at least five, six gallons to spare. Thanks to those poor beasts dying along the way,” she added.
“She doesn’t seem fine,” I insisted. “She’s barely spoken, today. She’s reminding me of how she was after . . . after her accident.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” she chided. “She made an attack on an enemy, and she was wounded as a result. But she’s as well as you or me,” Lilastien insisted. “Quit worrying about her, Minalan. You do her a disservice. In fact . . . there is an argument to be made that she’s doing better, in the absence of magic,” she proposed, warily. “I don’t know why, exactly, but . . . well, this hellish trek may actually help her, in some ways.”
“How?” I demanded.
“I don’t know,” she said, testily. “But I’m watching, okay? She just seems to be . . . to be more sane, for lack of a better term. It’s subtle,” she said, shrugging.
“If you say so,” I conceded. But I vowed to pay close attention to my wife’s condition.
As we rounded the sharp bend in the trail, the great expanse of the slope that led finally to Anghysbel revealed itself between two m
ighty cliffs. The actual trail was mostly obscured, from our perspective. But there was green, at the heights in the distance, we could see it even without magesight. A green that appeared vibrant and entirely at odds with our experience of the wastes for the last week. It beckoned to us with nearly religious attraction. The promise of cool grass and clean water summoned us as if with divine command.
“Almost there,” promised Fondaras, that morning, his voice creaking as if it was made of leather. “A very gentle transit through the wastes,” he assured.
“Gentle?” Tyndal asked, in disbelief, as he saddled his horse. “Dear gods, if this passage was gentle, I don’t want to meet her sister!”
The path ascended four or five hundred feet to a plateau, a rocky mountain on either side. It appeared as if some great flood had poured out from between them in ancient times, creating the slope that bridged the distance between the wastes and the mountains. The rocks were strangely formed, too, unlike any I’d seen before. And I’ve seen a lot of rocks.
We pressed on, perhaps with more enthusiasm than actual speed. Indeed, our pace seemed to slow interminably, once we were in sight of the northern cliffs. The horses seemed more than reluctant to proceed – indeed, every step forward that they made they seemed to conduct with decided reluctance, if not resentment. I couldn’t blame them – without magic, hauling the heavy wagons and fat arses of our party seemed a tortuous task. But they did so without the knowledge that there were better pastures ahead, so I could appreciate their diligence under such harsh conditions.
For the rest of us, the faintest glimpse of green plants in the distance was enough to propel us forward. The pallid palette of the alkali wastes had gotten into more than our skin; it had infected our minds. Everywhere we looked there was a bone-colored landscape that mocked the very idea of life. Greenery, in any variety, was such a novelty, such a contrast to the last week of our lives that just the promise of actual grass and trees was enough to compel our every step up the slope.
It was hard not to be excited – well, at least eager – to see the end of the wastes within sight. The trail switched back thrice as it ascended the slope, just barely wide enough for our widest wagon to traverse it, and the horses were not happy . . . until we removed their masks – and ours – half-way up. The air still stank of the wastes, but there was also a cool breeze with the scent of grass that occasionally cut through it. It became stronger the higher we trekked.
On the last stretch of the last switchback there were three Kasari waiting for us. They saluted their fellow tribesmen who had guided us through the wastes, and had fresh water for us, as well as bread and bandages, if we needed them.
Their leader was named Captain Kereru, who led the rangers of Anghysbel – or Melleray Champa, as they styled their settlement.
They spoke little Narasi, we found, unlike the Kasari of Bransei or Kasar. Captain Irimel had to translate much of what the Melleray Champa rangers said.
“Welcome to Camp Melleray,” the man who’d shepherded us through the wastes translated as we followed the Kasari up the last few hundred yards of trail. “Well, the actual camp is a ways from here, but the sentry camp, the one that watches the wastes, lies just over the edge of the embankment,” he indicated. “There you can find water, food, and take some rest if you need to. And a bath,” he added, with a smile.
“A bath?” Lilastien asked, suddenly intrigued.
“It is for medicinal purposes,” Captain Irimel explained. “If the dust doesn’t get washed off as soon as you leave the wastes, a painful rash can cover your body. The rangers recommend that everyone strip off, wash their clothes, and curry the horses before we proceed. It can be particularly bad on horses.”
“I need a bath more than I need food or water,” Alya agreed. “Dear gods, I feel like every part of me is covered in grit!”
“I also explained to Captain Kereru about the goblins following us,” Irimel added, quietly.
“Will the Kasari contend with them?” I asked.
Captain Irimel conversed with his fellow tribesmen for a moment, then shook his head. “No, they are honor bound to assist all who come from the wastes. ‘Chun cabhrú le daoine eile’,” he quoted in Kasari.
“What?” Ormar asked, from the wagon behind us. “They’re going to help those bloodthirsty bastards?”
“If they require assistance, they will receive it,” agreed Captain Irimel, gravely. “If they become belligerent, the rangers will retreat. This settlement is not arrayed for war, nor is it terribly large.”
“The Kasari are all honor bound to render assistance, in an emergency. To anyone,” explained Fondaras, who was walking with our guides ahead of us. “That doesn’t mean they won’t defend themselves, but they take their oath to aid very seriously. Particularly in Anghysbel. It is a dangerous place,” he warned.
“I thought we just crossed through the dangerous part?” Tyndal complained.
“We just crossed through a dangerous part,” corrected Fondaras. “The perils of the wastes are fairly straightforward, if arduous. Anghysbel itself can still kill you a multitude of ways. Particularly when you lack magic,” he added. “I advise caution in all situations, after we leave the camp.”
Tyndal’s grumbling ceased once we crossed the threshold of the entry vale. The first few tufts of grass gave us a welcome sign that the journey was, indeed, over. The path continued through first sparse and then abundant grasses, until we topped the rise and saw a beautiful meadow sprawl out between the cliffs. Wildflowers were blossoming across the expanse of green like multicolored stars in a verdant sky.
“A tree!” called Tyndal, excitedly. “Dear gods, I never thought I’d miss seeing a tree so much in my life. The Land of Scars is desolate, but at least it has trees! I think I need to pee on it to celebrate,” he decided. “This is my domain, after all.”
“It all looks so beautiful,” Alya agreed, a misty expression on her face. “Beautiful, green, and clean.” She turned her head to look back at the insidious waste, which spread out behind us like a sickly cloak. “I am not looking forward to our return trip.”
As we found our way to Tyndal’s precious tree, under which the Kasari kept their sentry camp, the air became cool and refreshing, though the moisture in it began to make my skin sting. A spring nearby would provide water, Master Fondaras explained, and two great copper tubs would be provided, one for baths and one for washing clothing. A merry fire was already heating the first batch, I could see. As we watched Ithalia and Nattia landed their giant falcons near the tree, startling the brace of Kasari rangers tending the fire.
We had arrived at Anghysbel, at last. Our quest could now begin in earnest.
Chapter Ten
The Windmaster of Melleray
The Kasari of Melleray are similar to their southern cousins in culture, no doubt due to their mutual reliance on the Book of the Hand. Indeed, the only variance from their southern kin is the design of the insignia on their complicated native dress, a stylized fountain in front of a smoking mountain. Their community is commanded by their ranger captain, who keeps things orderly, and supported by a council of men and women who oversee everything from food production to educating their children to trading with the other local tribes. Despite their insular nature, they are every bit as friendly as the Kasari of Bransei or Vanador.
With certain exceptions.
From the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,
Recorded by Gareth of Vanador
We came to the Kasari camp cleaner, certainly, but completely exhausted, like a rag that had been rung out and then hung to dry. We felt limp from the ordeal of the wastes, and while the bath and cool gulps of water from the spring were refreshing, it would be days before we would feel healthy again.
Melleray Champa was set high up on a small plateau on the western side of the wide vale. It was perhaps only three hundred feet or so up to the place, about ten acres of nearly flat land overlooking the meadows below, nestled against a steep cliffside to the wes
t that soared hundreds of feet higher. It was a small, protected little slip of land; while our ride up the incline was easy and pleasant enough down the well-traveled trail, I saw it would not take much resistance to defend the place. A few men with spears and bows would make anyone think twice about coming up that steep path.
We came to the elaborate structure that served as the entry to the Kasari settlement. It was made of logs and lashed together artfully, and while there were sentries posted to overlook the trail, it was not a defensive structure. An ancient metal sign hung from the gateway proclaiming, in ancient High Perwyneese, CAMP MELLERAY HIGH ADVENTURE CENTRE, CSA. EST. CY 41.
It was hard to believe that that sign was older than the Five Duchies.
There was a general commotion as the first horsemen – Tyndal, of course, flanked by Fondaras and Lilastien – arrived through the gateway. Apparently the Kasari didn’t get many visitors, and everyone in the settlement (no more than two or three hundred, I learned) wanted to lay eyes on the strangers from the wastes.
We were an odd lot to look at, too: Magi, knights, Kasari, Karshak, Dradrien, Alka Alon, and then – suddenly – two Sky Riders and their airborne steeds, who landed in the main square just as we rolled into it. Moments later, Nattia dismounted her bird and tackled one of the Kasari.
“Her brother, Travid,” explained Gareth, as we finally climbed off the wagon seat. “The Talented one. When his rajira arose, about the time of the invasion, he chose to exile himself here, rather than learn magic. He was a windmaster,” he confided.
I nodded. That was a rare Talent, more rare than pyromancy or beastmastery. Controlling the winds doesn’t sound like a serious endeavor – all competent, Imperially-trained magi can call a breeze or raise a wind. Windmasters could raise massive storms. I didn’t know why the lad’s Talent had driven him to this place, but I was certain there was a story behind it.
Nattia was ecstatic as she embraced her brother. “They haven’t seen each other in years,” Gareth explained, as we watched the happy reunion. “The last time was when Travid escorted her to her apprenticeship to a falconer. She feared she’d never see him again.”
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